Bloodlust
by GrannyWeatherwax23
Summary: "Am I supposed to feel guilt for this, brother? Is that what will make me human, define the goodness in my soul?" Slashfic. Damon/Stefan. Stefan wants to eat people; Damon just wants Stefan to eat him.


**Warnings:** Uh, violence? And spoilers for season 1, episodes 1x 5, I guess. I love this show!

**Summary:** _"Am I supposed to feel guilt for this, brother? Is that what will make me human, define the goodness in my soul?" He raises the arm keeping the girl's hip pressed to his, trails his fingertips up her torso: between the bumps of her ribs, over the ridge of her collarbone- coming to rest, finally, against the warm thrum of her jugular. You choke and his mouth tilts up in acknowledgement._

You're sitting in the massive, wine- swilled living room that still sometimes sends you painfully back in time, listening to Kanye wax lyrical through your headphones. He ain't saying she a gold digger when the pounding rhythms are interrupted by a smoother, more sardonic voice.

_"I thought there was hope. That somewhere deep inside, something in Damon was still human."_

You look up and there he is, blue eyes cold and mouth twisted around a mocking smirk, holding your diary up like a trophy as he quotes from it.

"Did you really? I hate to disappoint people, especially the ones I care about. Good thing I can't care, isn't it? Seeing as how I'm not, ah, human." He smiles at you, fierce, teeth flashing white and sharp for a single instant before they're gone.

After that he throws your own unfortunate words back in your face whenever the opportunity arises.

"Oh Stefan," he says one evening, materializing in your bedroom with his arm bent gracefully around a slight, too- calm blonde girl's waist. She is not Caroline, but the pale golden hair is the same, as are the deceivingly guileless blue eyes now blown wide by some heady combination of alcohol and vampire compulsion.

"Am I supposed to feel guilt for this, brother? Is that what will make me human, define the goodness in my soul?" He raises the arm keeping the girl's hip pressed to his, trails his fingertips up her torso: between the bumps of her ribs, over the ridge of her collarbone- coming to rest, finally, against the warm thrum of her jugular. Bloodlust and superior vision ensure that you can see every delicious throb of the artery as it pushes up to meet his fingers; the shocked, instinctive inhalation you can't quite prevent ensures that you scent the warmth lying just beneath her skin. You choke and his mouth tilts up in acknowlegdment.

"But what if I have no soul?" he asks softly, consideringly. He's gathered her hair up in a shining handful now, baring her throat like the lamb she has become. "Stacey, honey, do you think I have a soul?"

The girl- Stacey, she's in your English class, you think fleetingly- sighs and nestles closer. Either she is naturally weak or Damon is stronger than you'd thought. "Answer me," he says sharply when she does not make any further response.

"No, Damon," Stacey says dutifully, voice a familiar blank monotone. "Good girl." He tips her face up and smiles down at her with something approaching fondness, albeit from the wrong end. And then he leans down- still graceful, always graceful- and sinks his teeth into her neck.

The sound you make is almost pained in its need.

It becomes a nightly ritual, this voyeurism he imposes on you. Every night a new girl -and once, an ethereally beautiful boy- is led to your bedroom and you are made to watch as he rips open their throats and drinks deep, sucking down the torrents of crimson their veins produce. Every night your eyes go dark and the secondhand blood in your body turns your face monstrous as you watch; watch and crave. Every night you resist. Sometimes you are able to control your movements, your expression- school them into studied indifference or feigned disgust. At other times you are not so lucky. Strangely enough, your brother smirks hardest on the days that you are succesful.

Today is one of those days. You've managed to keep the look on your face within the acceptable boundaries of distress, even if you can't do anything about the nonexistent whites of your eyes. Damon has his back to the wall, facing you, his body obscured by the limp form of his latest victim. He's licking aound the mangled mess of her neck, blue eyes calculating and fixed on yours even as he tongues the wound shut. "You know, I'm quite impressed," he says, letting the girl go and stepping around her when she crumples, bloody and boneless, to the ground. "Have you been gambling much, Stefan? Because your poker face is _excellent. _I almost can't tell how much you want the taste of her blood on your tongue, how much you ache for the slide of it down your throat, wet and salty and-" he's in your face now, breath warm and lips bloody "-_human."_

"I don't," you croak, voice hoarse with the lie, "want it." Damon grins at that, moving even closer until his nose is brushing your cheek and his bloodied lips are pressed warm against the skin of your jaw. "Don't be stupid," he whispers, catching your lower lip with his own and smirking when your tongue flicks out, helpless, to taste the blood smeared across his mouth. "Of course you do."

-_fin_


End file.
